


Sun Shower

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: They Didn’t Send Invitations Out for the Fox Wedding [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Mary goes to her local library for answers.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Hilda Spellman/Original Mary Wardwell
Series: They Didn’t Send Invitations Out for the Fox Wedding [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600171
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	Sun Shower

It’s raining.

It rains a lot.

Mary Wardwell shakes out her umbrella and then leans it against the interior wall in the entryway of the Greendale Municipal Library.

She’s walked here in the bright afternoon, fighting the rain.

She wants to research the entity that has assaulted her and stolen months from her life.

She can’t say any of this out loud. No one would believe it. And even if someone else did believe it, she herself might not.

It’s all a weird thing. Maybe there’s something to it but maybe there’s not. A hole in the fabric of reality that may or may not exist.

She walks the halls of the Greendale Municipal Library. She’s walking to walk. An apparition.

But also she wants to know. Figure out.

Mary sits on a footstool with a heavy ancient tome draped over her lap at the end of a row. She’s scanning the words as in her periphery there is movement. She looks up:

Hilda Spellman is in the aisle, tongue against teeth, forefinger skidding along, and her forefinger is flexing and stretching against book spines. 

Mary watches the blonde’s focused energy.

Hilda is an entity unto herself. She’s got an armful of books, and she’s looking for more. Hilda has come to the library with a specific goal in mind. Whereas Mary has come here with her own reasons.

Hilda is searching the stacks. But then Hilda accidentally sees Mary. Their eyes meet.

There is so much there.

Hilda approaches.

The clunky old microfiche computers are dusty and hidden away behind a sheet of plastic in preparation for remodeling. The shelves there in that section are bare—metal skeleton soldiers at attention in a tight formation, stoically standing and steeling themselves for a losing battle.

Mary remembers herself as an undergrad hunched over an even older and clunkier version of one of these computers skimming newspaper articles, or browsing these shelves when they were brimming with reference books, or giddily and furtively kissing her crush on the cheek in a dark corner after the taller girl had retrieved a periodical from a top shelf for her. There’s no dust in these flashes of images, just a nostalgic film and a yearning for a simpler time of her life when she had had achievable goals and a clear sense of purpose and and an even clearer sense of herself.

But those memories are all a certain kind of ghost that she’s no longer interested in seeking or perhaps even able to seek. Now, she’s chasing a different ghostly feeling. And now she’s not giddy—not young and hopeful and full of possibility—but desperate. Desperate to feel something she can understand and access and put into a tidy box later, piece it together with other scraps from that tidy box to make a jagged and impressionistic portrait of who she is now. But also desperate for hands she can feel and see, the type of hands that could be x-rayed and the bones could be seen in the developed picture. Palpable. Real. Not some supernatural vision or prophetic dream—ethereal and fleeting and perhaps not real to begin with, just some nebulous projection produced in an injured brain. (Injured how and when and why, she still doesn’t know, but the injury is obvious for the evidence and the absence.)

She pulls Hilda to the dark, ominous forest of empty shelves, where the back issues of the newspaper from before when both the town’s newspapers had merged into one amalgamated newspaper in the early 1930s had been located. The bare trunks of shelves have lost their leaves, never to grow them again—a perpetual winter until eventual redistribution as timber and lumber.

It’s almost as good as fucking in the woods. Maybe better. No squirrel or bird sounds, no burrs to get caught in stockings. Stiff, worn carpet instead of soft, pine-needle-covered earth, and a smooth, painted wall instead of rough tree bark.

The fluorescent lights overhead have been neglected, and half of them work. Half of that half work reliably. So there is flickering, intermittent illumination. A pall falls over them, and Mary pushes Hilda more firmly against the wall.

Mary is so tired of feeling powerless—in general, but especially over her own life, which in the past had been so carefully organized and so meticulously managed. She’s seen in this situation an opportunity to gain control of herself. To use her body for her own purposes.

(She’s tried exercise. A deadlift here, a shoulder press there. And that has given her a sense of herself, certainly. The limitations of muscles and tendons. It’s her body straining against weights. But it’s so mindless. She’d known she has needed an activity that marries body and soul to really feel whole again. Something that is both physical and emotional. Something that can make her brain think and her body work, force her dendrites and capillaries into action.)

She snakes a hand under Hilda’s skirt. She finds bare flesh and lets herself enjoy the sensation of fingertips tapping and dancing along the smooth expanse of another woman’s thigh. She hears Hilda’s sighs and groans as her hand moves up and across and up and down and across and down and up again, raising goosebumps. She’s relishing her own sensations. The supple skin and the way her fingers have the strength and ability to either entice or damage. An intoxicating capacity for either pleasure or pain. 

It’s here that she has the power she craves.

Mary tangles her other hand into Hilda’s hair and pulls firmly but not enough to hurt.

Hilda’s head is thrown back—the tension of Mary’s hand in her hair and the excitement of Mary’s other hand creeping under the waistband of her underwear.

(Mary has been here before. She’s felt this powerful before. Somewhere in her meaningless and hazy past. That somewhere else is just as meaningless and hazy. Or perhaps somewhere else that does have meaning. She can’t place the feeling. She’s used to not being able to place feelings.)

Mary kisses Hilda’s elongated, thrown-back neck and penetrates her with two fingers.

It’s no wonder men fixate on sex, Mary thinks as she’s pumping: The inside of a woman is so warm and inviting, so luxurious. 

But Mary isn’t a man. She slides her thumb up for clitoral contact. Direct. Insistent.

Hilda’s digging her nails into Mary’s sides and then wailing as her fingers clench a final time, deep into obliques. 

Mary hisses at the sharpness but presses closer so they can both exhale into each other.

It’s raining.

It rains a lot.

There are no windows here for Mary to perceive the rain, but she knows it exists. And she also knows the sun is shining simultaneously. The devil’s beating his wife, as they say.

But why should the devil beat his wife?

Regardless. The devil’s wife has her own agenda.

**Author's Note:**

> 2020 starting with 20 Hilda/Mary fics!


End file.
